


Mini fics

by planet_plantagenet



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry V - Shakespeare, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, Othello - Shakespeare, Richard II - Shakespeare, The Tempest - Shakespeare, Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Random & Short, Request Meme, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9253613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planet_plantagenet/pseuds/planet_plantagenet
Summary: Short fics—some of which were written for various tumblr memes/prompts, and some for a writing class.





	1. Prompts #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a tumblr meme:  
> http://leeks-is-good.tumblr.com/post/155421641529/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story

**Fluellen: too loud**

 

“I’m bored,” said Fluellen for perhaps the sixth time that night.

Gower drew his cloak up towards him, poking the fire. How could one be bored when there was sure to be a huge battle when the morning came? Likely Fluellen’s boredom was just masked anxiety. “Well… tell me about history.”

Fluellen’s face lit up. “What part of history?”

“How about….” Gower paused, searching, then replied, “The Peloponnesian War?”

“Ooooh good!” Fluellen jumped up, starting to pace around the firepit, hands gesticulating animatedly. “The Peloponnesian War was very interesting, look you, especially in terms of military leadership! They had this great guy called Pericles, but then he died, and then there were demagogues, which was bad, and they were really awful leaders, especially this guy called ALCIBIADES—”

Fluellen’s voice had been slowly rising in volume throughout the speech, and neighboring soldiers around the other fire pits were beginning to stare. Gower quickly stood as well, whispering to his friend, “I think you’re a little too loud….”

“Oh.” Fluellen hastily sat down, grinning sheepishly.

 

_AN: I wrote an essay on the Peloponnesian War last month..._

 

**Constable & Orléans: hide**

 

“Quick!” hissed Orléans, behind the wall of the Dauphin’s horse stable. “He’s coming! Hide!”

The Constable quickly ducked down next to him, covering his mouth to stifle his giggles. For a couple seconds, everything was tantalizingly silent. Then the two of them heard footsteps down the hall, getting louder as the Dauphin approached. The sound stopped abruptly. Neither the Constable nor Orléans dared to breathe.

Until suddenly: “WHO THE HELL HAS COVERED MY HORSE IN PINK SPARKLE PAINT???”

 

**Henry V: silent fury**

 

 _Tennis balls._ Somehow the mock was even more insulting than if the Dauphin had sent his entire army to attack England. No,—instead, he seemed to know Henry’s internal weaknesses and insecurities, and that made Henry livid.

But he wasn’t about to explain all this to his lords and advisors. If they were to invade France, his personal emotions alone were not enough to justify it.

 

**Henry V: sunbathing**

 

“My liege!” came Exeter’s frustrated voice from the bottom of the hill. King Henry hastily sprung up from his lazy position on the ground, dusting himself off and smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry,” Henry called down.

“The middle of a war is no time for sunbathing!”

Henry was tempted to respond with, _But France has such nice weather!_ but decided against it.

 

**Iago: total control**

 

Iago might’ve chuckled to himself, but even such a small action could break his act. And Iago wasn’t anything if not careful. No, he couldn’t even afford himself a gloating smile as Othello fell deeper and deeper into his trap.

When his plot had come to an end, and Othello, Desdemona, and Cassio were inevitably dead, then he would certainly allow himself to celebrate.

 

**Emilia & Desdemona: trembling hands**

 

“I fear, Emilia,” whispered Desdemona one night after a considerable hesitation in their hushed conversation, “that Othello isn’t who he used to be.”

There was a pause. Emilia gripped her comb. “What do you mean?”

“I… I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It’s just… well, I don’t think Iago is a very good influence on him, you know?”

Emilia didn’t answer, but when she started again to run the comb through Desdemona’s hair, her hands were trembling.

 


	2. let us sit upon the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and tell sad stories of the death of kings.
> 
> Written as freewriting for a class. Also I wanted to write some Richard II stuff!

“Aumerle?”

I turned my head slightly, just far enough to see King Richard sitting next to me, back against the wall and eyes staring far out into space. His fingers twisted around the golden crown in his hands, and I felt a sudden pang in my stomach.

“Yes, your highness?”

Richard laughed, a hollow sound, almost as hollow as the crown he had described earlier on the beach. Now we were doing exactly as he had bade us—sitting on the ground to tell stories of the fall of kings. “Really, Aumerle. There’s no need to call me that. I can just be Richard.”

“But you’re the king!” Perhaps repeating it would make him believe it.

“Not anymore.”

I opened my mouth, took a breath, closed it again. “You’re still my king.”

He shifted his head, looking towards me with curious eyes. “Your king is Bolingbroke. Not me.”

“My liege….” I didn’t know what to say. I’d heard him talk so many times about how absolute his power was, given to him by divine right. And now, to hear him throw away the title as easily as a paintbrush he disliked, or a scrap of canvas that he no longer needed….

Or perhaps he was throwing down the title like a gage at the feet of a challenger.

“You know I’ll always be by your side,” I finally told him, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Even when Henry IV is your monarch?”

“Always.”

Richard nodded, but I couldn’t tell if the gesture was sincere or simply hopeful.


	3. most secret and most grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this tumblr post:  
> http://leeks-is-good.tumblr.com/post/154639226079/janeeyreofmanderley-really-wonder-if-the

“Hey.”

I whipped around to see one of Elsinore’s courtiers strolling up to me. I set down the wheelbarrow I’d been pushing, quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“You’re the gravedigger, right?”

“I am indeed. Need anyone buried?”

The courtier chuckled, a sound that contained no humor. “Indeed we do. Quite a few, actually.”

I rubbed my hands together. “Good, good. How many?”

“Four,” said the courtier in a surprisingly nonchalant tone.

“Four!” I repeated. Well, that was certainly more than I’d expected. More than I’d ever buried at once, in fact. “What the hell happened?”

He shrugged. “Not sure… I wasn’t there. Rumor has it that they all killed each other.”

“Who exactly are we talking about?”

“You mean you haven’t heard—? The entire royal family of Denmark is dead!”

I exhaled slowly, all the excitement of burying corpses draining out of me. The royal family of Denmark. I’d seen them just the other day, in fact, alive and healthy. I’d even had a conversation with Prince Hamlet. Could they really all be dead now? But, of course, that was the way life went. You lived, and then you died. So it goes.

I hazarded a question. “How fancy will their funerals be?”

“Um… probably pretty fancy? It’s the king, queen, prince, and a lord. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I’d learned to keep to myself my fascination with death, and its various ceremonies and rituals. Not exactly a normal conversation topic.

“So, can you do it?” pressed the courtier.

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll tell Fortinbras.” He nodded once at me, then started to walk back the way he’d come.

“Tell Fortinbras to raise my pay!” I shouted after the courtier, but I don’t think he heard me.


	4. this living fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: what they didn’t want the others to know they were thinking
> 
> My mind immediately went to stabby!Aumerle, so I wrote something about that. For some reason I've been writing lots of Richard II stuff?

Bolingbroke paced around the throne room before me, his footfalls loud and agitated.

“Richard is a problem,” he finally muttered. The statement was firm and assertive. “Yes, he’s locked up in Pomfret Castle. I know that. But he’s still a problem.”

“How so, my liege?” I asked tentatively.

Bolingbroke sighed. “He still has followers. We’ve killed Bushy and Green, but you never know when his supporters will rise up again. Carlisle, for example.”

He paused. I knew what he was thinking.  _ And you. _

“My liege—” I stopped suddenly, not daring to speak the words. I tried again. “My liege, if Richard is bothering you, shouldn’t he be dealt with?”

“Well, there’s not much we can do, can we? Pomfret is good enough for me—it’s not like he can get out.”

I stayed silent. A thought had formed in my head, too ludicrous to voice, but too strong to be ignored. If Richard were dead, Bolingbroke might sleep easier. And—though I dared not hope—he might truly pardon me for conspiring against him. Perhaps I could prove to him that I was loyal to any king, not just Richard. Perhaps that was worth the price of killing someone you loved.

Bolingbroke’s eyebrow rose, just slightly. “Is there something you’d like to share with me, Aumerle?”

“No, no, my liege,” I hastily replied. Killing Richard was an awful idea anyway.


	5. continual followers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what to write, so I did a thing about Hal and Poins.
> 
> "And how accompanied? canst thou tell that?"  
> "With Poins, and other his continual followers."

“Ned,” I said suddenly, “that was a stupid idea.”

Ned Poins perked up beside me, eyes narrowing a little in confusion. “What?”

“Robbing Falstaff.”

“That was ages ago! You’re still thinking about that?”

“Yeah. Sort of. Well… not that, but what happened after. I don’t know.”

“I’m not following you, Hal.”

I shrugged, brought my knees up to my chest. Ned was still looking at me, but I fixed my eyes on a spot on the wall instead.

“Maybe it’s not about Falstaff,” I replied.

“Hal—”

I whipped around, finally facing him. “I’m the son of a king! A king who’s dying. I’m going to be the king soon, you know that?”

Ned didn’t speak for a second. Then, in a very soft and strangely serene voice, he replied, “So what are you saying? That you shouldn’t hang around with us? Is that what you mean?”

“I—”

“And when you’re king, you’re gonna change, aren’t you? Be the perfect little prince your father always wanted you to be.”

“Well, hopefully—”

“And us. What’s gonna happen to us, Hal? Me and Falstaff and Bardolph and Nell and everyone? What are we gonna do without you?” His voice cracked; he took a deep, shuddering breath. I raised my hand slightly, perhaps to touch Ned’s shoulder, comfort him a little, but I lowered it before he could notice.

“I won’t leave you, Ned,” I whispered finally.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Ned said nothing, just laid his head on my shoulder—something he’d never done before. I could feel his chest heave up and down; I thought a tear splashed onto my arm. Perhaps I might’ve put a hand around his shoulder, but I wasn’t brave enough to attempt it. My stomach clenched as I realized that, as much as I wanted to, I might not be able to keep my promise.

 


	6. Prompts #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more prompt fics based on a tumblr ask meme:  
> http://leeks-is-good.tumblr.com/post/155698550689/drabble-challenge

**Hotspur: “Have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.”**

 

“You could be a pirate,” Kate suggested.

“No.”

“A knight?”

“I’m already a knight!”

“Maybe you could do some Star Wars cosplay like—”

“Have I mentioned,” Hotspur interjected curtly, “that I fucking hate Halloween?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Of course you have! Why do you think I keep suggesting costume ideas??”

 

**Hotspur: “How is my wife more badass than me?”**

 

“Hey Kate.”

“Yeah?”

Hotspur flashed her a grin. “Do you think I could take Prince Hal one-on-one?”

Kate leaned back in her chair, apparently in thought. “Eh, maybe.”

“What, could you?”

“Of course. I used to take fencing lessons, you know.”

Hotspur’s eyebrows shot up. “You— _what_?? Fencing lessons? And you never told me??”

She shrugged. “I guess I just didn’t find a relevant time to bring it up. But anyway, forget Hal—do you think you could take _me_ one-on-one?”

“Well, I, I was talking about broadsword fighting in the original question,” Hotspur stammered, his cheeks flushing.

Kate leaned forward, a delighted smirk on her lips. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never taken fencing?”

“I—well—no.” He let out a disgruntled sigh. “How is my wife more badass than me?!”

 

**Constable/Orléans: “It was a joke, baby. I swear.”**

 

“It was a joke, baby. I swear! I thought you were the Dauphin.”

“Not even the Dauphin deserves this,” muttered Orléans, furiously shaking glitter out of his hair. “What is it with you and sparkles?”

The Constable shrugged. “It's good prank material!”

 

**Kate/Hotspur: “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”**

 

Hotspur stumbled into the room, right hand clasped over an injury on his left forearm. The wound slowly dripped blood onto the floor. Kate looked on disapprovingly.

“You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

“I know!” growled Hotspur. “Help me!”

Kate grabbed a pack of bandages, conveniently placed in the top drawer for easy access. “What happened this time?”

“Swordfight gone wrong,” he muttered.

“Sounds about right,” she replied, tossing him the pack. “Fix yourself up. Tell me if it gets any worse.”

 

**Olivia & Viola: “Be you. No one else can.”**

 

“Hey Cesario—Viola. I mean Viola.”

Viola turned. Olivia had approached her and was regarding her with a sheepish and slightly confused air.

“What’s up?” she replied, trying to sound casual.

Olivia shrugged. “I just… I wanted to tell you… whatever your gender, I support you, okay?”

The sentiment was comforting. Even if Viola’s gender was constantly shifting and mutating, it was good to know that Olivia’s friendship wouldn’t change.

“Thanks,” Viola responded, smiling.

Olivia grinned. “Be you. No one else can.”

 

**Ophelia & Laertes: “I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.”**

 

Ophelia was sitting in her room playing Undertale when Laertes suddenly rushed in, one hand over his right eye.

“Ophelia—!!”

“Have you and Hamlet been fencing again?” she interrupted, not looking up from her laptop.

“He stabbed me in the eye!!”

“That’s what you get for fencing without helmets.”

Laertes rolled his eyes—or rather, the one eye that wasn’t covered. “We thought it’d be fine! But then he goes and—”

Ophelia shut the lid of her computer. “Look. I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor. This is one injury that you can’t ignore.”

“Fine,” muttered Laertes, traipsing back out the door.


	7. Prompts #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for this:  
> https://flappyfluellen.tumblr.com/post/158299420274/peekbelowthesurface-send-me-a-number-and-two

**Ariel & Prospero: do not disturb**

 

“Master?”

Prospero groaned, not lifting his head off the desk in front of him.

“Master!” came Ariel’s voice again. “You know it’s not healthy to work for twenty-four hours straight!”

“I told you not to disturb me,” Prospero grunted.

“I know, but I’m concerned. You need to sleep.”

“Not until I finish this… this… this potion….”

Ariel skipped into the room, plucking Prospero’s spellbook off his desk and folding it under their arm, looking smug. “You’re not doing anymore of this until you get some decent rest.”

 

**Kate & Hotspur: hold my hand**

 

Hotspur stiffened as he scanned the crowd at the festival. Yes, it’d been his idea to come—but why did there have to be so many people?? The only crowd he felt comfortable in was the throng of soldiers in battle. Not… this.

Kate glanced over at her husband. “Hotspur? You okay?”

“Of course.” He forced a grin, but it may have come out more like a grimace. Kate frowned.

“Is it the crowd?”

“No—I—I can handle a crowd! Just you watch me!”

He took a tentative step forward, paused, looked back at her. Kate sighed.

“There’s no shame in asking for help, Harry. Here, hold my hand. I’ll guide you through.”

 

**Fluellen & Gower: childhood**

 

“Welsh is your first language, right?”

Fluellen nodded enthusiastically. “Of course!”

“So then… when did you learn English?”

“Depends on how you define  _ learn _ .” He paused for a second, thinking. “When I was a child, I did not speak any English, look you… well, maybe a few words, but not many. I only really had to learn when I went to an English-speaking secondary school.”

“Was it hard?” Gower pressed, already knowing the answer.

“Of course! English is a terrible language! And all my weird learning difficulties didn’t help….” Fluellen sighed dramatically, as if pained to recount the memories.

Gower laid a hand on his arm. “For what it’s worth, I think you speak fantastic English.”

 

**Henry & Montjoy: in the storm**

 

At this point there seemed to be no distinction between the rain and the mud. King Henry still trudged onwards, however: he wasn’t about to give up yet. The men behind him were pulling a huge cart through the mud, clearly struggling as the wheels sunk into the ground and caught against rocks. If only they had their horses, this job would be a lot easier.

About ten minutes into the journey, Henry spotted a figure steadily moving towards them across the field. It looked like someone on horseback, and he thought he spotted a blue cape billowing out behind the rider. The French herald? But it couldn’t be—!

“Need any assistance?” the man hollered through the rain. He was now close enough that Henry could make out his face—it was, indeed, the herald with whom he’d talked a couple times before. Was Montjoy his name?

“That would be very kind of you,” Henry replied as soon as Montjoy was within earshot.

Montjoy smiled. “I’m glad to be of service.”


	8. Prompts #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for this:  
> https://flappyfluellen.tumblr.com/post/159386758179/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a

**Osric & Laertes: things you said when you thought I was asleep**

 

“So… a sonnet is fourteen lines, right?” came a voice from beside Laertes’ bed.

Laertes blearily cracked open an eye. Osric was sitting on the couch next to his bed, staring intently at a piece of paper, flashlight in one hand. Why was he in his room? And at this time of night? Laertes stayed silent, listening carefully.

Sure enough, Osric began muttering to himself again. “What rhymes with  _ thighs _ ? Lies? Sighs? Guys?  _ Guys _ is good.  _ Laertes, you’re not like the other guys _ . That scans!”

Laertes had to press himself into the pillow to keep from laughing. Osric was writing him love poetry??

“Hmm, what rhymes with  _ fence _ ?” Osric paused again, deep in thought. After a minute, he proclaimed, “ _ Intense _ works. _ But truly, my feelings are so intense _ —”

“That doesn’t scan,” Laertes interrupted, unable to help himself any longer. Osric jumped, staring at the bed with a look of pure horror on his face.

“You’re awake?” he finally breathed. “Did—did you hear all of that?”

“Your poetry is awful,” answered Laertes with a grin, “but don’t worry, I love you all the same.”

 

**Hotspur & Kate: things you said under the stars and in the grass**

 

The two of them lay on the hill for a while, watching the stars above them. They were high enough that their view wasn’t obscured by trees or buildings, and even Hotspur’s sensory aversion to grass seemed to have dissipated for the night.

“You’re rebelling against the king,” Kate said quietly.

“Yes, I know.”

She turned her head towards him. “Is it scary?”

“War is never scary!” Hotspur responded, perhaps a little too quickly.

A smile played across Kate’s lips for a second, then she clarified. “I mean… it’s a daunting task. Does it ever overwhelm you?”

“Not really, no,” said Hotspur after a short pause.

Silence again. Then Kate whispered, “It’s pretty dangerous.”

“Do you think I’d do it if it weren’t dangerous?”

She laughed. “Of course not. I just, well… it’s hard not to worry you’ll get hurt.”

Hotspur shrugged with an inapropriate amount of nonchalance. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m tough! If I get hurt, I’ll be okay.”

Kate rolled over onto her side, looking him in the eyes. “Promise me?”

“Yeah!” was the enthusiastic response. “Of course.”

 

**Fluellen & Gower: things you said when you thought I was asleep**

 

The presence of a large weight on his chest woke Gower out of his sleep. The campfire had almost died, but he could make out a shape beside him—Fluellen was apparently using him as a pillow. Gower smiled to himself. The situation was mildly uncomfortable, but he didn’t have the heart to shake his friend off.

“Hey Gower,” said Fluellen suddenly.

Gower tensed. Did Fluellen know he was awake? But before he could say anything in response, Fluellen continued.

“I know that you cannot hear me, and that is okay, but I was thinking. What are we going to do when the war is over? I have a couple possible answers. One is that we go back to our respective countries and never see each other again. But, look you, that is not acceptable in any way, shape, or form—because I love you and I am never going to let you leave me.”

Fluellen’s utter conviction—how he spoke so matter-of-factly—melted Gower’s heart. They’d never once dared to voice their obvious feelings for each other, and now Fluellen was just chatting to himself, convinced of the privacy of his words….

“An option that I like far better,” Fluellen continued, “is that you come to Wales and live with me! We could still visit England sometimes, don’t worry. My house is kind of small, but it’s very pretty and I think you would like it.”

Gower listened with growing excitement. Yes, he had a place in England he could come back to—but it was a rather drab London flat, and he didn’t particularly like the idea of living alone. But living in Wales? With Fluellen? Given they survived the war, it was a dream come true.

“That sounds amazing,” Gower said, interrupting Fluellen’s steady stream of fun facts about his house.

Fluellen sprang up, looking absolutely terrified, staring at Gower. But after a second, Fluellen’s brain caught up with what Gower had actually been saying, and his face split into one of the hugest grins Gower had ever seen.

“You were listening!!” he cried, hands flapping in delight.

“Indeed,” Gower replied with a smile.

 

**Constable & Orléans: things you said while we were driving**

 

“Can I drive?” came the Dauphin’s voice from the back seat.

“NO,” responded both the Constable and Orléans, exactly at the same time.

“Can I at least control the music?”

Orléans was uncomfortably reminded of the time when, inexplicably, the My Little Pony theme song came blasting out of the Dauphin’s phone. The moment haunted him to this day.

“Will you play shitty pop?” asked the Constable, not taking his eyes off the road.

“It’s not shitty—”

“No.”

The Dauphin was silent for a blissful five minutes. Then—

“We need more snacks.”

Orléans whipped around, surveying the now-empty snack bag on the seat next to the Dauphin. “Did you—eat it all?”

“You guys ate some of it.”

The Constable let out a tremendous sigh. “Can we wait?”

“No. I’m still hungry.”

“Even after eating an entire bag of apples?” cut in Orléans.

“I only had two!”

“Two apples!” scoffed the Constable. “I swear, you’re turning into a horse.”

“I don’t even think there are any exits for a while,” added Orléans, looking at the map. “Even if we wanted, we couldn’t exactly leave the freeway.”

“Fine,” the Dauphin muttered, “I’ll wait.”


	9. Prompts #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for this:  
> https://flappyfluellen.tumblr.com/post/162023538609/prompts-list

**Richard & Bolingbroke: “I hate you so much I love you.”**

 

“So! You’re planning to depose Richard, aren’t you?”

Bolingbroke turned. He hadn’t noticed Hotspur sneak into the room and quietly lower himself onto the couch in the corner.

“That’s definitely what Richard seems to think,” replied Bolingbroke with a wry smile.

“But are you going to?”

A pause. “I don’t think Richard should be king.”

“Then you  _ are _ planning to depose him.”

“Well, I, I don’t know yet.”

A kind of awkward falter had crept into Bolingbroke’s voice, and Hotspur latched onto it immediately.

“I think you  _ like _ Richard. Right?” He’d never been one to ask personal questions in a tasteful way, and this time was no different.

Bolingbroke narrowed his eyes. “Harry, what are you talking about?”

“You don’t want to depose Richard because you  _ like _ him.” Hotspur wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah, well, I hate him so much I love him,” replied Bolingbroke, rolling his eyes, tone purposefully sarcastic.

He didn’t really want to admit to himself how much truth was in that statement.

  
  


**Casca & Cassius: “Are you drunk?”**

 

The plan was going relatively well, Cassius mused. Almost all the conspirators were here, on the street before the Capitol, looking more-or-less inconspicuous. The group had gotten few odd looks or stares, and fortunately no one knew about their plot—

“And we’re all gonna stab Caesar, and it’s going to be absolutely fantastic—”

Cassius whipped around, heartbeat suddenly racing faster than its previous quick pace. Casca was leaning on a statue, chatting with some random guy—who looked absolutely terrified. Wasn’t his name Artemidorus? Cassius didn’t remember, and frankly didn’t care at this moment.

“What the hell are you doing, Casca?” he hissed, pulling Casca to the side.

“Just talking to my ol’ buddy,” Casca slurred, much too loudly, nodding to the wide-eyed Artemidorus.

A thought suddenly crossed Cassius’ mind, and he buried his face in his hands. “Are you drunk, Casca?”

“No!” replied Casca, indignant.

“I think you are.” Cassius put on the best fake smile he had, and turned to Artemidorus, who was, at this point, inching away from the group of conspirators. “I’m sorry. Casca isn’t in his right mind at all right now. We’re not planning on doing anything. Just hanging out here. Hahah. Gonna be great. Go away now.”

Artemidorus nodded frantically, and fled.

  
  


**Fluellen & Gower: “Do you want to kiss as bad as I do right now?”**

 

The battle was over. Gower couldn’t believe it. One more night spent in their tents at Agincourt, and then they could move to some more comfortable conditions.

But then, of course, there was the question of what would happen to his tent-mate Fluellen.

“Do you know where we’ll be going after this?” Gower asked. It was nearly midnight, and he knew he should be getting some sleep after the battle—but if this was the last time he and Fluellen would be together for a while, he wasn’t about to throw away his opportunity to talk.

Fluellen, sitting next to Gower on the bed, shrugged unhelpfully. “I, uh, wasn’t listening when King Henry explained it.”

“I don’t think the plans are finalized yet. …Do you think we’ll still be tent-mates?”

Silence, as Fluellen registered the thought, his eyes widening. “I don’t know,” he finally whispered.

“I hope we are.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“We’ve grown so much closer during these last few months.”

“Definitely.”

Another pause. It wasn’t like they’d never see each other again. But the uncertainty was scary.

Then Fluellen, king of saying whatever popped into his goddamn mind, broke the silence: “Hey, Gower, do you want to kiss as bad as I do right now?”

Gower whipped around, staring his friend in the face. They were a lot closer together than they’d been minutes ago. “Wait, what?”

Fluellen looked suddenly very sheepish. “Um, well, look you, I really like you, and I thought that since—”

“Fluellen—”

“I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want—”

“Fluellen.” Gower cut him off, smiling. “There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

  
  


**Orléans ( & presumably the Constable): “I’m sorry.”**

 

“I can’t believe you,” the Constable muttered.

“I’m sorry,” replied Orléans for possibly the third time that night. “I didn’t know what would happen. I know I shouldn’t have done that.”

The Constable sighed loudly. “What, you really couldn’t have seen the consequences?”

“I just didn’t see any harm in letting him—”

“Really? Really?!”

“He asked nicely.”

“Oh, whatever.” The Constable resumed his pacing. “No point getting in a fight about it. It’s not your fault.”

“No, you’re right. I should have anticipated—”

The Constable cut Orléans off with a wave of his hand. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Now we just have to deal with the consequences. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Pause. Then: “Do you feel like texting Exeter, or should I get Montjoy to do it?”

Orléans buried his face in his hands. He was never going to let the Dauphin borrow his car ever again.

  
  


**Brutus & Portia: “You did all of this for me?”**

 

“You did all this… for me?” Portia flipped through the book, mouth hanging open slightly.

Brutus shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but his eyes sparkled with excitement. “I felt bad about leaving you out of the conspiracy plans.”

The book was not quite an actual book—more like a bunch of paper bound with sewing thread—but it was professional enough that Portia could tell it had taken a lot of work. At the very beginning was a note: “Portia! You’re amazing! Hope you enjoy all the photos.” A series of pictures followed in a sort of scrapbook fashion—photographs commemorating Brutus and Portia’s relationship. Portia recognized many pictures from their wedding day and similar formal events—as well as just random photos of the two of them walking together, or reading together, or sitting on each other’s laps.

“Cassius took most of these, didn’t he?” she asked.

“Some of them, yeah.”

“But he’s not in any of them.”

Brutus shrugged. “I wanted this to be about me and you.”

Portia’s face split into an even wider smile. “Thank you so much.”


	10. he lies not like the living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassius isn’t quite dead when Titinius comes looking for him.
> 
> Based on a heart-breaking Julius Caesar production idea I had. I decided not to post it as its own fic because of how short it is (and maybe I don't want tons of people to read this and then be sad).
> 
> (content warning: major character death)

Pindarus is bad at stabbing.

Maybe it’s the heat of the moment, or the way Pindarus’ hands are shaking frantically, or the regret in his eyes that makes me think  _ he really doesn’t want to do this _ —or a combination of all of those factors. But whatever the reason, the wound that he gives me is not enough to kill me immediately.

Perhaps he’s hoping it won’t kill me at all.

I bite back a scream, whispering my last words despite the pain. Pindarus helps me to the ground. I can feel his rapidly beating heart. Does he know that he’s just doomed me to about ten more minutes of agony, before I inevitably die of blood loss? If I had the strength, I’d take the sword and help myself to a quicker death. But it’s lying just out of reach, and Pindarus is already scampering away, quick to abandon all reminders of his horrible task.

Now it’s just me, and the incessant pain in my abdomen, and the panic and chaos of my own mind. Crimson blood flows out from between my fingers, which are clutching the wound.

I black out.

*

I wake to even more pain. My vision is blurry, and I know I couldn’t move any of my lower body if I tried. But a figure is kneeling beside me, clutching my bloody sword.

Is that—?

_ “Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart….” _

It is. My best friend. I, believing him dead, stabbed myself. And now he’s about to do the same thing. It’s heart-wrenching.

I want to cry out to him, but I can’t….

And it’s too late. The damage is done. Titinius staggers backward, dropping the sword, one hand to his chest in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding.

And then he stops, locks eyes with me.

There’s a second where we stare at each other, eyes wide, not quite believing what we’re seeing. We’re both alive. But now we’re both about to die. And as much as we both want to turn back time, fix our misconstructions, we can’t.

At least we’ll die together.

Titinius is crying. I’m sure I am too. He slowly, painfully, lies down next to me, so that we’re only inches apart. His trembling fingers caress my face. Neither of us can speak, but we know exactly what the other one means. I lay a numb arm over him.

We hold each other until we both slip out of existence.


End file.
